


you know the greatest films of all time were never made

by robbersxfilms



Series: peterfel week 2020: but we were something, don't you think so? [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Description-Heavy, F/M, Midnight rendezvous, Peterfel Week 2020, dialogue-lacking, heavily inspired by taylor swift's folklore lyrics esp the 1, is just mentioned - Freeform, non-spidery au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robbersxfilms/pseuds/robbersxfilms
Summary: peterfel week day one:midnight rendezvousPhotographer Peter falls in lust with the girl he meets at bourgeoisie parties and has a knack for stealing his things.
Relationships: Felicia Hardy/Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Mary Jane Watson
Series: peterfel week 2020: but we were something, don't you think so? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862992
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: PeterFelicia Week 2020





	you know the greatest films of all time were never made

**Author's Note:**

> i'm thinking spider-man ps4 or mark webb's tasm with fel jones for this one, and not beta'd bc we die like women!!! inspired by a variety of taylor swift song lyrics, pls feel free to name drop said songs in the comments! this is lacking in dialogue but description-heavy just to forewarn everyone else :)

Silver strands and glossy lips—she liked to think herself a little bit better than everyone else. A world of champagne gold, illicit affairs and masquerade meetings was all she'd ever known these past few months, but it was just one of those things she couldn't help herself from. There was a pull in there somewhere; a tug at her heart, a spark of butterflies in her stomach—something small that just enticed her. Maybe it was the wealth on display, all shower of green and cascading diamonds, of sparkly necklaces draped all over undeserving femmes. Or maybe it was the drugs, the temptation of forgotten highs and liquor stained regrets, secrets touching underneath tables, and glitter so white you could choke on them. Or maybe it was that wannabe photographer, with the awkward suit, the crunchy brown curls glossed with unneeded gel and a smile that just—caught her.

He stood there in the middle of it all, held tight to his chest that cracked SLR. His suit was black with a tilted bow and coffee-stained polo shirt. He was one in a dime, a diamond in the rough—caught her eye not because of his rigid posture, or how dim and dull he seemed compared to all the shimmer-clad guests that passed them by. No; it was the way he stared right into her eyes, bated breath, piercing haze in his gaze—that's when she knew he'd be different. She could already taste his smirk against her vixen smile, the warmth of his sigh on her soft breasts, and the skittery touch of his fingertips right there on her skin and—

"Enchanté."

She greeted him, perched on the rails of the outside balcony. Her dress was black, low dip v-neck with silver lines that beamed against the midnight moon. Her hair was up in a simple bun with bangs that delicately framed her face. She knew she looked stunning to the eye of every average man, but something about his beer-stained stare made her feel—different. Like she was on the edge of something; a new discovery, a life unlived, _an illustrious world of just he and her_.

"Uh, hi." He breathed out, shy but charming, sly and disarming. "I'm Peter—Peter Parker."

"What brings you to this party all on your lonesome, Mister Parker?"

She asked with unblinking teal eyes, yet for some odd reason, her lashes still fluttered indiscriminately with a taste for seduction. And there went another heavy breath.

"I'm a photographer for **The Daily Bugle**."

He explained, non-too-committally. There was a story there, she just didn't care to find. Boys: they came and went – they were like new toys that gleamed pretty and shiny, but unlike diamonds, they weren't forever – she liked to think so.

"How about you?"

"I'm just here for the ride." She grinned, dainty little fingers over her lips. "Some fun, some food, maybe a chance meeting with some handsome stranger."

"That's cool."

And it was. A cruel type of cool that tangled their legs, the taste of summer mistakes and roaring twenties mischief. There were slow and long talks of who they were and what they did, of family troubles – dead uncles and stubborn mothers, incarcerated fathers and idiot mentors – and failed romances – Gwens and MJs, Jasons and Eddies. They danced to the distant call of classical music, and she laughed as he spun her around, all pretty and glittered, head thrown back with smirking eyes. And just before midnight passed, they unraveled each other—clothes on the ground, whispered moans and hands and mouth all over skin and bones. He held her tight against the wall, the party lights blinked with the mirth and whim of the high-class party and its classless morals.

The night shifted, and so did they—scrambled up into her hotel room lips never leaving each other. They fell a mess into the bed, white sheets stained red with her wine and his blood, nails on his back and teeth on her neck. And at the end of it all, they faded into a collapse—a heap of pleasure and heavy breaths that slept the night away. Until he woke up the very next day to an empty bed and his wristwatch stolen.

Maybe he should've listened better when she talked about her criminal father and the family business. Maybe he should've known to pay special attention to her affinity for his wrist and how she undressed him of everything—even his dignity—save for that golden accessory. But he felt no remorse nor regret. She was just another girl he found some other night with ulterior motives to bank, and maybe he didn't mind it as much as he'd like to convince himself.

So he went home to his small apartment with his lovely aunt and her big brown eyes, and he'd forget her again until the very next gathering his boss would undoubtedly force him into. And they'd see each other again every strike of midnight on some balcony, with the light breeze and hot air from their lips, and the messy cycle would start all over again.

"Why do you tolerate me?" She asked one night, flushed cheeks and sweat on her brow. "Why do you stay?"

"I don't know." He answered earnestly, as he pushed himself far deeper into her and she let out an explicit moan. "Somehow, you really bring out the worst in me."

"Come on lover," she struggled to chuckle, and held tight his strong arms. "We're quite something, don't you think so?"

And he did.

Nights went by, and she'd stolen almost everything he had—empty wallets where she'd scatter the contents all over the hotel room floor for him to find, leather belts with silver buckles that left him pulling up his pants to keep them from falling to his knees, a baby picture of him he had stashed somewhere in his blazer pocket, and the old engagement ring he never had the courage to take off, marked with M x J at the back. Each midnight rendezvous blurred and bled into the next, non-stop pleasure and pillow talks, but no commitment had ever been made.

The last happened one airy night in which he thought himself too fun, too young to fall to pieces. Only 24 with so much to offer, and a father figure that never understood. He laid himself bare in front of her, took pictures of their misadventures, and she held him close in comfort. Each click of the finger, each sip of the wine, and each bang against the wall he felt the worries slip away. And they collapsed onto the floor, laughing messes, naked and drained. He woke up the next day not the girl in sight, not his camera to be found.

There was no next time.

He'd never known her name until her picture cropped up one sunny afternoon, splashed across the papers. Things were getting better between he and MJ; they talked more and she'd even worn his jacket. He'd long quit his job at **The Daily Bugle** , but he'd never forget that ugly banner anywhere. And upon closer inspection he saw—there she stood, one _Felicia Hardy_ , married to one of New York's wealthiest elites. And wrapped around her dainty little finger was an engagement ring he'd recognize anywhere.

He'd never thought of himself as her fated _handsome stranger_ , but it was nice to think he could've been the one for awhile.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, peterfel week kind of sprung up on me even tho i've known about it for months, ahahaha! this is a short one-shot that should've been longer but i'm a little swamped rn yet i still wanted to participate :) if you're still thirsty for more peterfel after reading this, check out all the lovely entries for peterfel week in the collection or head over to @peterfelweek on twitter where they compile EVERYTHING, from fanfictions to fanart innit! and if you still need more, you can always check out my writings _sunflower_ and _us traitors never win_ ;)


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